


Summer Scented Papers

by pflaume



Category: SEVENTEEN - Fandom
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Fluff and Angst, M/M, Summer, coupshan, jeongcheol - Freeform, jeonghan remains vague, like really slowburn, seungcheol is frustrating, slowburn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-21 22:58:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14295297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pflaume/pseuds/pflaume
Summary: This is how Jeonghan dreams of places he wants to conquer; of summits he'd like to try; of summers he will never forget. This is how Jeonghan dreamed of Seungcheol before he came into his life.





	1. cor cordium

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is loosely inspired by a novel I'm still reading so everything written in here is purely fiction. Enjoy the result of my massive jeongcheol thirst. I miss them.

_“Enchanté.”_

 

It’s saying ‘it was enchanting to meet you’; not nice, not pleasurably; but enchanting, at extreme. Meeting someone for the first time and saying “enchanté” is probably the oddest and at most, it has come to the point where it’s only been said as a passing greeting.

 

 _“Enchanté.”_ Jeonghan hadn’t heard anyone say the word with such reverence, like actually meaning it. The voice, the adoration, the soft grin that comes along with it, the word itself. It was as if it was really enchanting to meet him.

 

It’s the very first thing Jeonghan has come to grasp when it comes to him. Sure, the night skies have revelled a good competition but nothing has come close to the curt smile.

 

It has sounded less than dismissive, just like how any other intends, when he’d say it; a soft blow or a euphemism to the fact that they might not hear from you again, just a let alone greeting. It felt like actually a welcome than a send-off.

 

It might have started with that gesture and then he watches him, the folded sleeves that Jeonghan has come to love; the unkempt hair that he has come to hate. _Raphael. Caravaggio. Giotto. Gentileschi._

 

The very person that has had the audacity to contend the arts in that museum. Jeonghan puts his pen down and he’s suddenly back to France, years ago.

 

 

*

 

 

Wandering in places he’s found interesting in a spin-off decision has been a part of Jeonghan’s uncanny hobby of trying to corner pieces of himself. Every summer vacation, he’d pack up a part of his everyday life in one seemingly small hand luggage, take on a fast train somewhere and get off in a place ordinary but less taken. Jeonghan has come to acknowledge the beauty of solitude. Sleeping during travel hours and eating alone in a café does not bother him a bit. It’s somewhat a blessing for him, a break from whatever his normal life has chucked him into.

 

The man also has met the kindest of people who had adopted him for the night or even during his whole stay. His sudden adventurous emprise isn’t one for equipped funds. At times, he’d find himself counting off coins and cents in his awful wallet when the nearest bank of his recent travel is still three-hours away. Nevertheless, he’d always say the experience is more than his money could suffice. He’s young. _“What’s there not to live?”_ he’d like to think when in fact, he’s somehow in search of something he hasn’t put his hand into.

 

When it comes to places, Jeonghan has made sure he’d land somewhere he could find his way back to his normal life. Albeit he wonders of places he could get lost with, it’s easier that way. He has never stepped out of his country. He has tried to convince himself that if he wants to travel, he should at least, first, accommodate his own. Never be a stranger to what you have.

 

That year’s summer was exceptional, however, as Jeonghan found himself rooted to the spot and grasping the handle of his luggage too tight, he could feel it dent against his skin. He’s been looking at this painting for too long. Maybe this is what he has been looking for: appreciation for art, the kind of wonder Jeonghan has been inlove with years way back when he first step into his high school. Maybe he was in search of something that could quench his thirst for things of marvel, intelligence and splendor.

 

But of course, reality has to kick in. France has been friendly ever since he landed five days ago but he has been stupid enough to not have sufficient money. On the bright side, though, he applied for a general visitor visa, if that means anything to be proud of.

 

“Caravaggio.” The voice that Jeonghan never thought he could hold on for too long has said. The man has to take his mind off things that has been bothering him for the past minutes to process what the stranger said.

 

Jeonghan managed to suck in a small breath and nod, “Death of the Virgin. To which an art historian has described as ‘a death in a night refuge’.”

 

There was a small chuckle, more of amazement than surprise, which Jeonghan found placating considering how he sounded harsh in his English. He turned around and was greeted with a sunshine grin.

 

Maybe it started soon after that, when he introduced himself as “Choi Seungcheol” before a small _“Enchanté”_ but it never dawned on Jeonghan, maybe months after, but not on that night. Instead, Jeonghan has queried, “You can understand English?”

 

“I can speak Korean, if you ask.” The man folded his limbs infront of him with a hushed voice and a rolled up sleeves while his eyes are still fixated on the painting.

 

Nothing has come special from the man. It’s just that his hair is tousled in an odd way, forearms almost tan but his cheeks are dusted light pink, like a small blush on a little girl’s face. He does have beautiful eyes though, the kind that one couldn’t find in the streets. His hands, Jeonghan has remembered staring at them for too long, were marred with ink that told him of things Seungcheol couldn’t quite say.

 

When he remained silent, Seungcheol suddenly blurted out in a small laugh, “I did not mean to boast. I mean, I could speak Korean because I am one.” Jeonghan let out a gust of relief and Seungcheol continued with, “Must be hard to be the odd one out, eh?”

 

He’s now finally face-to-face with the man, after being secondary to the painting laid in front of them, when the other tilted his head toward him. “You don’t look like Korean.” Jeonghan shamelessly scrutinized him from head to toe, making sure he did not miss an inch of skin.

 

This earned another laugh from the stranger who dismissed him in a short wave of a hand. “I’ve been living my life here ever since I was a kid, got a job and maybe, die here also. What do you think of his art style?”

 

It suddenly hit Jeonghan in the gut, when he’d think he’s somehow finally gotten into the man only to be resigned back to what they were discussing minutes ago. He has put the get-to-know questions, although he doesn’t know why his interest is so piqued, at the back of his mind with the focused demeanor the other has displayed so far. Jeonghan cleared his throat and casually shrugged. “Mannerist painting? Kinda obsessed with the intricate figurative styling and technique,” he trailed off, panicking and then gaining another pull of courage when he saw him nod, as if discernly. “Sort of, uh, off-balances the importance and meaning of the subject matter so it displays as artificial.”

 

But it might have started during when Seungcheol pressed a thumb against his lower lip, a habit that he does, Jeonghan has caught on months after, everytime he’s in deep thought. The man shifted his weight between his both feet while he waited for him to respond and it dawned on him that—though he did not need to—he’s been trying to ask for his approval. “Don’t you think the exaggeration and abnormalities of scale is the essence of this style?”

 

“Emphasis, maybe,” Jeonghan gripped harder on the handle of his dainty luggage. “It’s kinda irrational, though, to have all of these in a flat background.”

 

Or maybe it was after the night, when they’ve roamed about enough to conclude that he was actually, unconsciously, following the man. Jeonghan should have enjoyed the place but Seungcheol was distracting, with how his brows furrow together to squint at a certain image or how he’d purse his lips everytime he overhears tourists chatter out loud breaking him in his euphoria, probably overbearing the urge to go up to them and remind them to “keep quiet”.

 

The museum towers into high ceilings that opens up to the sky. It casts pieces of history to the world, contained in expensive intricate frames or physique of metal and stone. There are spiral steps that Jeonghan has been eyeing ever since they entered the room. It looks suspended and at the same time, not. He shifts his weight in his own two feet again.

 

Seungcheol stepped back and finally put all his attention to Jeonghan. He went for the sunshine grin again and somehow, it thrilled him. “Art student?” he queried.

 

Typical. “Architecture. Are you?”

 

Seungcheol has shaken his head and returned his attention to the pointed ceiling showcasing the night sky, “I’m a, what, you, young people call, a protégé. I’m revising my manuscripts and also teaching at this summer house to be a full-time professor.” Jeonghan was thoroughly intimidated upon such fact. He looked so young that night, albeit creases in his forehead aren’t invisible.

 

“You made it sound like you’re a decade older than me.”

 

“Twenty-seven.”

 

“Twenty-two.”

 

“Half a decade, then. In what university are you studying, exactly?”

 

“Uh, it’s back in my country. I’m only here for a vacation.” Something just suddenly clicked in Jeonghan’s mind, lodging together in a perfect piece of what he could call a _eureka._ “But I’m currently out of funds and maybe,” he weighed it, like how he nervously swung his left foot back and forth, gently, “I could work for you and help you in your manuscript and you can pay me in return.”

 

Seungcheol snorted, for the first time that night, “Employing a visitor is illegal.”

 

The younger tilted his head, “Only if we get caught.”

 

He had immediately laughed. To humor him hasn’t been as difficult as that but it undid Jeonghan—when he shot him a glance and was met with the fondest smile he’s ever seen. “You seem to know a lot of things, Jeonghan.”

 

He has always liked how both their minds work as if in correspondent with each other, unsaid thoughts being held back but nonetheless, shared. _And there, always there._ It was this time that Jeonghan has let himself stare at him in silent devotion. “Things that does not really matter.”

 

 

 

**

 

 

The summer house in the outskirt of town is highly far from just being a mere house Seungcheol has told him. It oversees the ocean, has its own vast garden, grounds and even a small pool. It’s more of a vacation grande if someone is to describe it. Jeonghan hadn’t really thought about getting on the stranger’s Mazda and driving off the road for straight an hour or so. He didn’t have much that choice.

 

They arrived rather unceremoniously, large metal gates swinging open upon Seungcheol’s request and the wheels of his car scraping soundly against gravel. Residents didn’t have to pay as Seungcheol told him, when he realized he will be living with a bunch of people under the same roof for a month or so, just enough to fund his own plane ticket back. He was given a run of the house in the cold of the night because it was convenient than to have the “kids”, Seungcheol addressed them as such, flock him while he’s giving him the prologue.

 

Jeonghan hasn’t been able to sleep that night. The pain in his feet kept him up and the presence of someone from the room down the hallway has bothered him enough to toss and turn the sleep off his list.

 

“Is he always like that?” Jeonghan licked his lips, orange juice tinting his tongue like how the sun has managed to seep tan into his flesh after a week of staying.

 

Junhui, one of Seungcheol’s students that also spent his summer in the mansion, toyed with his chair, lolling himself back and forth before he abruptly stopped upon Jeonghan’s sudden question. “What?”

 

“Competitive.”

 

Or maybe it started after Jeonghan’s arrival, during one of those lazy afternoons where Seungcheol challenges the kids to a game of volleyball which they would so actively participate in. Jeonghan described it as “endless” because they only would stop when their faces are flushed enough that they have all turned pink. By then, the sun has set and they would all be called out by the house helpers for dinner.

 

The other residents were keen on making Jeonghan play the game but he has opted to stay at the sides, to be the one watching.

 

“No,” Junhui shook his head as he also took a bite off someone’s unattended apple on the table. The sun pricked heat into his ankles, save for the parts shaded by the huge umbrella above them. The air was stale and smelled like the ocean but the laughter from across the grounds served as comeuppance to it. “He’s kinda boyish, although he doesn’t show it that much. He acts much younger than you could ever think.”

 

Jeonghan has come to the resolution that maybe Seungcheol has gone reserved because of him, a stranger. After all, people who knows a lot, also hides a lot. Perhaps he didn’t believe what that was implying, that he did not trust him enough. But who could ever trust someone that quick? He opted a casual nod, ricocheting fondness into a more neutral curiosity, “How long have you been here, Junhui?”

 

“Since I was a child.” Junhui possesses youth that magnifies as a carefree three-year-old, Jeonghan observed. At times, he’d place both his legs on the table during movie nights which the housekeeper would so much despises but he’d hang on being more mature than Seungkwan, who’d purposely spill his orange juice just because he prefers grape. “It has been a tradition of our families to chuck us into this summerhouse to learn, even Seungcheol was one of us. We’ve snuck to town when the summerhouse gets too boring. He didn’t have a car that time though so we had to use our bikes. University changed him. When he came back, it was as if we became his responsibility.”

 

“At the very least, he came back.”

 

“I suppose,” Junhui agreed, staring off into the huddle of people tossing the volleyball back and forth over the unrealistically high net. Hansol, the kid who’s “drastically blond”, hollered English words Jeonghan didn’t quite get when the spike he delivered successfully managed to land into the opponent’s court. Seungcheol has Chan, the youngest, on his back, screaming victory on the top of his lungs. “But he shouldn’t have that much in his hands.”

 

 

***

 

 

Jeonghan’s very first paycheck, three weeks later, came as a regret rather than an achievement. The amount did nothing but weigh in his hand, although it presented only as a mere piece of paper. It would be hypocrisy to say he doesn’t know why. The workload that came along the pay was no joke and he very much so deserved it with all the proofreading and cite-hunting he did, day and night. But it meant home and he knew he didn’t want home any sooner if it also meant he’d be back to his plangent routine.

 

“But _hyung_ ,” Mingyu whined, resigning off the good-natured student act to a more effective resolve, the lost younger brother. He made sure he scrunched his nose a bit as he wiggled himself in front of Seungcheol’s desk who was having nothing of his shtick.

 

Seungcheol rolled his eyes and looked at Jeonghan as if asking for his help to which the younger only shrugged. He watched the interaction in pure mirth, pulling off both his knees to curl himself in the corner of the sofa. Seungcheol’s office has served as his second bedroom when the deadlines got to the both of them that they’d stayed up until their breaths fog up the glass windows and their noses have turned red.

 

“How many times do I have to tell you, Mingyu, too keep your parallelism in check? Your first four sentences are a sore to the eyes.”

 

The oldest can be a bit hard sometimes, especially when it comes to disciplining the younger ones. Jeonghan has become their go-to person, when the _“your narrative is due the next day, Joshua”_ and the _“Soonyoung, can you keep your noise on track”_ become very frequent.

 

Mingyu stomped his right foot and Jeonghan almost laughed. “I made this the whole night!”

 

But the papers were being held back to him, big red X on the front page. “Well then, make it two nights.”

 

The boy has scurried off the office with a _“Jihoon hyung! Seungcheol hyung is being a twat again!”_ which earned him a smack in the head before he eventually got dismissed by the said man.

 

“What is wrong with that kid?” Seungcheol mumbled through his teeth, trying hard not to show the masked fondness for the younger but Jeonghan has caught up to it. He has caught up to a lot of things; to the way he just carelessly throws himself into the bed after a drifting long day or how he’d just shake his head in mock dismay when Wonwoo has skipped lunch again to bury his nose into another book he’s found in Seungcheol’s study. What Jeonghan hasn’t really caught up is how the other’s gaze lingered everytime he’s busy compiling major parts of a book that strands of his hair would fall astray, covering his face. _Or he chose not to._

 

“Strawberry?” Jeonghan offered, plucking the bowl of fruit from the coffee table.

 

“A cheque?” Seungcheol countered, much to Jeonghan’s confusion who reluctantly crossed the room to receive the piece of paper. “Your paycheck,” he cleared. “Since you don’t own a bank account.”

 

Jeonghan did not really much have to say. A “thank you”? A “that was fast”?  An “easy money, I guess”? By the time his lips have curled into what resembled a small appreciation, Seungcheol was already out of the room which made his phrase hang loose, frustrated and stale. “Coward,” he mumbled instead.

 

 

****

 

 

 

Jeonghan loved the summer weather. The day with its flat, hot afternoons and the evening with its too chilly drafts of wind that have always kept him up. He’d result to reading books by the window, cheek pressed against the glass until it’s sore and he can’t feel it. But he loved it, he loved it nonetheless, because it meant privacy, somehow. It meant things that only drift in his head only when he has no other things to put his attention to.

 

Dinner went fast, silent in cold blood. No one has dared to speak to someone, just the mundane clinking of utensils and the occasional “thank yous” by the students. Seungcheol has arrived home in a rather irritable fashion, storming in big, heavy steps towards his studies with a short “Don’t expect my presence at dinner” to Minghao who only gave them a flat stare when asked about what happened. It was strange and Jeonghan did not know how he survived that.

 

It has been akin to a ticking bomb, like if Jeonghan dares to create a short, ample move, it would create a ripple; a ripple that would not forgive even the smallest of everything. Sometimes he likes to pretend there isn’t anything to avoid or cower himself from but the mere fact that the room down the hallway had always kept him up said so otherwise. He wondered what would it be like if he did not meet Seungcheol. He’d probably be back in his apartment or still on another journey; a very simple run down of his routines during summer. But then again, he realized he’d choose counting down off to dinner just so he could be with the man after a long day of papers and people. He knew, by then, why.

 

Jeonghan took a lungful of breath and toyed with the hem of his shirt. Maybe he could just silently tiptoe back to his room, pretend he’s a passing wind that was strong enough to hinge off the painting lodged to the left wing of the hallway but he made it already infront of the door and Seungcheol undoubtedly has heard him, if the halting of movements from inside meant anything. Or maybe he could just walk straight to the sala, just to say he wanted a breath of fresh air and keep anything for tomorrow’s practiced explanations.

 

Just when he was about to pivot his heels away, the door to Seungcheol’s study swung open, revealing the said man with more than unruly hair and exhaustion gritted in the tension of his jaws. He did not hear his footsteps, judging from the look of surprise that passed his face which has gradually faded into confusion. “Jeonghan?”

 

“Me,” the boy has nodded, replied dumbly. He fumbled for his words, to explain why was he standing infront of his door like a mighty stalker but Seungcheol has beat him to it.

 

He maneuvered himself in between Jeonghan and the door and then he asked, “Hungry? I’m gonna go get dinner.”

 

At times, it felt like Seungcheol himself has been the one to give their actions a kind of excuse; a leverage that it’s okay to do such because there’s no underlying motive and if there has been, they’d been too eager to bottle it up. Sometimes Jeonghan liked to think there was no motive and that Seungcheol really just did not care. _Sometimes._

 

They found themselves sitting on the floor of the kitchen, behind the counter with legs splayed out and a good distance, enough not to intrude each other’s space _or motive_ , between them. Seungcheol munched on his apple, diligently, like a kid given treats after a long day of being deprived from it. He has this odd habit of ogling at the part where he’s about to bite and when he does, he’d lapse like he’s too focused on chewing for him to be thinking about any other things. It’s like whatever he does, he will put his full interest on it. Jeonghan wondered what it would be like to be the receiver of Seungcheol’s full interest.

 

“You’re staring,” Seungcheol has said, mouth dry from all his eating.

 

Jeonghan let out a noise that resembled a snort, “I know what I’m doing. Are you giving me the credits for it?”

 

The elder’s lips perked up into a small smile and then he shook his head as if he wanted the same smile erased, “You’re killing me.”

 

That was something Jeonghan did not expect for. He presumed for another question, the same another _excuse_ that Seungcheol has been marring in between them but now that it’s only the two of them in the middle of the night, on the kitchen floor, there’s suddenly a _“you’re killing me”;_ a sudden confrontation swerved from all the hide and seek; a sudden dead end. Jeonghan did not know what to make of _“you’re killing me”._ Is it a word for him to halt? To go on? To keep doing what they have been doing? “Am I?” Jeonghan has asked, fingers drifting on Seungcheol’s thigh. “Is it a good thing or a bad thing?”

 

“Should everything be categorized as bad or good? Why such need?”

 

Jeonghan scooted closer, throwing everything that he has reserved. Personal space or motive be damned. “You keep on avoiding me and I think it’s a bad thing.”

 

Seungcheol has let himself enjoy a smile this time. His hand ghosted on Jeonghan’s cheek and then he decided to place it on his nape instead. “What’s considered a bad thing to you, Jeonghan?”

 

The older’s hand felt foreign on his skin, to think that he has been deprived of anything but a mere gaze, it felt new; as if an oasis through three days of desert. “When it’s frustrating.”

 

“Am I frustrating you?”

 

Jeonghan released a breath he has been too conscious to hold and then he tilted his head up, opting to avoid Seungcheol’s burning stare on him. He promised himself he would not give up that easily. But somehow, being actually on the spot, with his hand on his thigh and this close to the man made him rethink his decisions. “You even scare me sometimes.”

 

“You should not.” Seungcheol frowned at that and then he pulled his hand away which made Jeonghan almost whine at the loss of touch. “When things get personal, that’s when you should start to get scared.”

 

Has he worded it wrong? He wanted those words to remain vague. He wanted it for Seungcheol to interpret it on his own. _You even scare me sometimes_ has a lot more than what could Jeonghan say. He doesn’t want to come off needy to the man. But he recoiled at the mention of it. Jeonghan wanted to say that he meant it not in the way he’s thinking about. Just put his hand back around him. “You should give me a reason then.”

 

Jeonghan wanted to flesh out his words but a pair of lips made him swallow them. Seungcheol has crossed the line with a searing kiss that did nothing but to melt Jeonghan’s facades. He sighed, as if feeling his lips on his finally meant home, if not, a subtle track of where he is supposed to be. He brought his hands up to slide them through Seungcheol’s hair and pulled him even closer for a more assaultive contact. He would kill for it to be considered intimate but just as Seungcheol swiped his tongue inside Jeonghan’s mouth, he quickly pulled away.

 

And then there was silence.

 

“Was that personal enough?” Seungcheol was the first to break the growing stale air.

 

“Why did you do that?” Jeonghan was out of breath, thoughts by thoughts racing inside his mind like he is a madman. He wanted to pound guilt unto Seungcheol and at the same time, he wanted for him to continue the kiss, yank him up and push him down the hallway until his back hits the familiar soft plush bed. He wanted Seungcheol.

 

“We were doing so good at keeping everything at bay. I wanted to make sure.”

 

“Make sure of what?”

 

“Of what we’re good at, pretending or hiding.”

 

Jeonghan wasn't able to sleep again that night but by then, he has admitted to himself _why_.


	2. make up a goodbye, at least

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is self-indulgent because I don't feel like myself these days hehe. I wanted angst so I tried (very furiously) writing. This would only be short though because I started this at lunch earlier. This fic, however.. um I don't know where will this go but if you managed to read through still, then thank you. 
> 
> Also prolly lots of grammar mistakes because I'm not used to using the past tense and I didn't proofread this. Sorry!

_Citrus,_ Jeonghan materialized.

 

He realized the older smells of citrus, a hard contrast of his outward appeal: his veiny hands or his tanned arms; Seungcheol wasn’t golden. In fact, he’s too pale to be under such sunshine in the foreign country.

 

Jeonghan caught whips of said scent during intimate times of silent tours between the two of them. Seungcheol would drag around his rusted old bikes with a practiced excuse of “ _the host should accommodate his visitor”_. Jeonghan would see through the handsome grin; the hard shell of a man who grew up too fast because he needed to, _slowly and slowly_ cracking. He should have really used his head but by then he was already dying to touch Seungcheol. The first one felt like a joke, as if he was just another boy who sat on Seungcheol’s kitchen floor and decided it would be exciting to kiss him—especially when the older acted as if nothing have happened between them the next day. It was already too late so he said, _“whatever pleases my host”_ and hummed a French song he learned from Joshua three weeks ago as he clumsily cycled past the older.

 

Seungcheol would laugh and say, “Careful.” And the citrus scent imprinted itself deeper behind Jeonghan’s mind.

 

He should have smelled like cigarettes; bitter, pungent and resentful. Seungcheol was morose, if Jeonghan was to say. A sadist, at times; everytime he brings Jeonghan to his meetings, he would press small taunting grips around his waist while he introduced him to his colleagues as his “assistant”. Jeonghan would ache the whole night, both from the assaulting touch that he so wanted and from the label that the older man has given him. It felt like a boundary; that albeit Jeonghan was the one who smoothed out his suit and did his tie earlier that night, the one who freely ran both of his hands down the expanse of the elder’s chest, he remained to be at a professional distance.

 

“You know everything doesn’t have to be perfect to work, right?” Jeonghan asked in his small, quiet tone. The night has gone haywire when he heard Seungcheol’s steps trudge from the garage to his study. He didn’t mean to intrude but he fell asleep on the couch and when he blinked his eyes open, he saw the man peeling off his shirt, walking decisively towards the pool. Perhaps the night wasn’t the only one that has gone haywire, because Seungcheol looked back at him, in all his naked glory—save for the boxer shorts-- smiled, brought up a finger to his lips and said _“Come.”_

Which was how Jeonghan found himself wet, sitting on the edge of the pool, with the waves crashing in serene harmony from the sea. It was dark outside and kind of chilly but Seungcheol was pressed between his thighs, with his cheek pressed on top of one of his legs and his skin felt like fire on his—enough to kindle a catalyst that they’re supposed to pick up. The hanging _“you’re killing me”_ and what could have he possibly meant with it.

 

“I know,” the older responded, deep sleepy eyes fluttering in haze from his post-midnight swim. Seungcheol looked drunk and messy. His raven hair cascaded in an unkempt fashion down his forehead; the fringes might have been poking his eyes and his lips might have been too pale because of the absence of heat but Jeonghan couldn’t find it in him to conjure hate because this is how he wanted Seungcheol. He doesn’t want the crisp suit, nor the professor-like eyeglasses nor the posh Caravaggio introduction. He wanted the tanned arms after an afternoon volleyball, the man slumped behind the counter eating apples. He wanted just.. Seungcheol in his mundane boxer shorts, gleaming under the moonlight like he owned the whole world with just his hands.

 

“Do you find me perfect?”

 

At times, Seungcheol is a masochist; a critique of his own self; where Jeonghan says yes, he would hesitate in a prospect of just “being safe”. He derails himself at most whiles because he thinks Jeonghan is fragile— _he isn’t_ —like some sort of painting, an attraction to just stare at, but not to touch, never to touch. “No,” Seungcheol answered, an octave too deep. Maybe the cold has started to seep in that his throat started to hurt but also, maybe Jeonghan wanted what makes Seungcheol crack; wanted to watch him finally break down so he could pick up the pieces and throw away what wasn’t needed. “You’re flawed,” he added with a small press in the inside of Jeonghan’s thighs. The younger swallowed a gasp. “Sometimes you skip off proofreading some lines that I have to redo them myself. Or when you drink an entire glass of pineapple,” Seungcheol straightened up between his legs; the water around him casually worshipped the way he moved, and then he swiped his thumb along the other’s lower lip. Jeonghan felt hazy. “It makes these a slight tint of yellow. You never really played with the _kids_ , too. And just earlier, I saw you almost hanging off the couch, sleeping.”

 

Jeonghan enjoyed himself a laugh. It sometimes rattled him, the fact that he waits all day for Seungcheol to come through the doors of the summer house from his university but when he gets the intimacy he has been so achingly wanting for, he shies away from it, as it is a foreboding derision of his own motive. Jeonghan wanted to be touched, he really just doesn’t know what to make of it. “You haven’t said anything, though.”

 

Seungcheol twisted his torso and looked past the shrubs of greenery instead, into the ocean. His arms stayed around Jeonghan’s waist but the younger felt the grip started to stale that the panic that has been veering around the edges of his words inched to tore itself through. _What has he done?_

“It wasn’t really about being faultless in the first place,” Seungcheol nagged himself right to Jeonghan’s thoughts, grounding him back. The grip around his waist tightened and the ripple of the man’s words began to widen, creating massive consequences of what he was going to say. “Say, I could tolerate every flaw as long as it is you.”

 

Jeonghan wanted to kiss him immediately after that. There was it.. the permission, the motive, the ripple, all in itself, enclosed in a single and simple quiet sentence. Jeonghan, unbelievably, managed to make progress just as he was so sure Seungcheol wanted nothing more—he could not read the man. His grip on the edge of the pool loosened and as comeuppance, he snaked his arms around Seungcheol’s neck, where he tangled his fingers through the hair on his nape. “I think you’re perfect,” he admitted, baring it all, from the firm _“Enchante”_ to the quiet _“I could tolerate every flaw as long as it is you”_ because Jeonghan had nothing to lose. In the foreign land with a man who owned thousands of unfinished manuscripts, he had nothing to lose.

 

Seungcheol scoffed, “You find the image you conjured of me perfect,” and finished slowly. He looked up at Jeonghan like the younger is made of wonder and other worldly things. The way he has stared bore so much intensity and sincerity that made Jeonghan grab on tighter around him. “Perhaps I make you feel safe because I am years older than you. Maybe with the home I gave you, you found the security you needed. These are the gestures, Han,” Seungcheol has abruptly stopped, suddenly hyperaware of the nickname he has dropped in the open, but then he licked his lips and continued, “They could be perfect. But not the person, not me.”

 

“Why do you find it so offensive to give credit for yourself?” The question has sounded mad and at the same time whiny. It sounded like a child in a tantrum but only because Jeonghan furrowed his brows so hard and that his voice sounded weak. He remembers Seungcheol has grasped his face in a wide grin and a playful _“baby”_. He wanted to smack him right in the face.

 

But Seungcheol also didn’t answer. Instead, he asked Jeonghan, “Why do you do this to me even though you know you’re still about to leave?”

 

For the first time, in Jeonghan’s stay of six months, the vulnerability shone through. He has always wanted to crack the man open, see what’s inside, accept him wholly no matter of what was to come. But now that the molten emotions have given out, spread itself in the cold night water, Seungcheol looked much older than he really is.. but more real.

 

It was this time that Jeonghan understands why.

 

Nevertheless, he still didn’t end up in his own bed that night.

 

***

 

 

Most often than not, Seungcheol literally smelled of cigarettes. The citrusy scent has permeated permanently on his skin tangled with the unacceptable smoke through the rolled up sleeves of his button-up. It was Jeonghan who caught him first, smoking in the orchard, a considerable distance away from the others where the froth of trees was thick; never really liked the idea of smoking but Seungcheol has said it _“helps him calm down”_ so Jeonghan kept his mouth shut.

 

At times when Seungcheol pretended Jeonghan doesn’t exist, the younger retaliated. Jeonghan would remind himself that the other doesn’t smell _that_ good and that he absolutely hates cigarettes. More often than not, he stuffs a wet towel in the gap between his bedroom door and the floor and would smoke during nights when he couldn’t sleep.

 

Seungcheol admittedly still smells _that_ good. Only when he held his hand during prayers before meals, his limbs would start to shake uncontrollably; minor tremors that never really meant anything until Seungcheol realized what was happening. Every time then, Jeonghan would snatch his hand away as if his skin caught fire.

 

“Seungcheol _hyung_ …” Chan started, voice unsure and hesitant. Jeonghan looked down at the small boy, probably fifteen, that he has been twirling in his arms all night in a faux imitation of a dance Minghao has taught him but he never really learned because he just kept on laughing earlier. Chan owns the aura of a sunshine; Seungcheol’s neighbor who lived inside the grounds of the whole villa. They had met only earlier that afternoon, when Jihoon dragged him to the outskirts of the grounds to attend the monthly event—of just people greeting each other and drinking fruit punches spiked with a little bit of alcohol until they’re all loose and too funny to be dancing. “He adores you, doesn’t he?”

 

_Adore._

It was such a cruel word.

 

When Seungcheol found out Jeonghan has been smoking, it has been embarrassing. The older was so distraught that he had his face buried in both of his palms while he was seated on the edge of the bed. It was unfair, Jeonghan has mulled, while he remained motionless in the corner of his room where Seungcheol has barged in earlier, ransacked through his things and cut the sticks of cigarettes in two with the scissors he found on the floor, the same ones he used an hour ago to cut through magazine pictures of the older so he could keep them in his wallet.

 

 _“Not everything I do requires adoration, Jeonghan!”_ The rage in Seungcheol’s voice made Jeonghan almost whimper, if not for the fact that he was also rabid angry with what the elder has done. He backed him up like a little child and cornered him into guilt as if he didn’t have a single choice. He was fucking twenty-two years old. He was aware of what he was doing. _“You should detach yourself from the idea that every single one of the people under this roof is your responsibility! You don’t owe anyone shit.”_ Jeonghan has shouted, finally, finally letting all his frustrations push through what Seungcheol has surrounded him with—a wall of protection, he thinks.

 

“You think so?” he smiled softly, which in turn made the boy beam up at him too. They have stopped dancing, only Chan clinging to Jeonghan like his life depended on it. Jeonghan let his gaze run beyond the boy, into the nest of people where Seungcheol was laughing with Soonyoung and Seokmin. The butterfly lights perched around the trees made everything seem a bit too theatrical, like a scene out of a movie. He yearned for the same treatment but Seungcheol remained closed-off and guarded.

 

Chan giggled, head enthusiastically bouncing up and down. “Yes, but you have to fall in line. He said I’m his favorite but don’t tell Seungkwan _hyung_ because he’ll be really mad. He’s everyone’s favorite though so we have to share.”

 

Much to Jeonghan’s chagrin, Chan literally meant “to share” as the boy aggressively pulled him into the edge of the make-shift dance floor. The grass parted softly beneath Jeonghan’s feet and that was all he could focus on as the proximity between him and the older started to close. Seungcheol’s eyes found his immediately and his arms, as if on automatic cue or just a gesture which had been so frequent that it needed no more questions. He wanted the questions though, he wanted a dead-end, the ultimatum; but Seungcheol already had him in his space, pulled away from the peering glances of the kids who they’ve kept at bay when it comes to their relationship and into the dark edge of the garden.

 

“Finally,” Seungcheol sighed, sounding relieved.

 

“Missed me?” Jeonghan joked, tilting up his head with an arrogant smile at Seungcheol. The older wasn’t taller than him. In fact, he probably missed only two inches, give or take, but the way how he tucks Jeonghan under his chin made him warranted to be the shorter one. It was sometimes awkward but also, Seungcheol felt like a massive wall Jeonghan could always hide behind.

 

This time though, the older shrunk himself and buried his face into Jeonghan’s neck, pulling him impossibly close as if there hasn’t been a time he ignored him. Jeonghan knew. Sometimes, Seungcheol reasoned about having too many damn papers to check so he spends the night in the university, only for Jeonghan to watch his car pull up at one a.m. from his bedroom window. “Three months,” Seungcheol croaked and Jeonghan stilled from rubbing the back of the older. He suddenly didn't know where to put his hands.

 

“Does it matter?” Jeonghan asked. It was during these hushed hours that Jeonghan realized Seungcheol is a child. Maybe the cigarettes didn’t mean anything but a last resort or an old companion. “Was that the reason why you never really acknowledged me inside the mansion during my first months?”

 

Seungcheol snorted, Jeonghan finding it still constantly true that Seungcheol was too easy to humor and he’s riled up in it. “You drove me crazy finding every valid excuse just so I could avoid you.” And then with another tug around Jeonghan’s waist, Seungcheol mumbled, “No emotions could ever hurt you when it’s never really there in the first place. But you were pretty hard-headed, stood in front of my study for minutes, waited until after dinner for me to get home, even stole my damn cigarettes.”

 

“Had to,” Jeonghan cleared his throat. He could feel his bile rising up because Seuungcheol’s grip around him was too tight but he doesn’t say anything because it might be the last time he had his arms around him. “You didn’t give me the time of the day. What was so hard with falling in love, Seungcheol? It isn’t a luxury.”

 

Maybe it started when Seungcheol’s desperation began taking place in lieu of all the back-and-forth _s_. There are times that Jeonghan found himself holding the man, during hours where their work wasn’t required; just cause Seungcheol said so. His scent has started to cling even inside Jeonghan’s room that he despised being alone in it during sleepless nights when Seungcheol locked himself up inside his office.

 

“The fact that you were bound to leave.” Seungcheol admitted, the ghost of his words trickling along the naked expanse of Jeonghan’s neck. “I told you the first day we met that you knew a lot of things and you argued, maybe things that doesn’t matter. Everything does matter, Jeonghan. Everything does when it comes to you.”

 

“You wouldn’t ignore me again after this, right?”

 

“And you wouldn’t say yes even if I begged you stay.”

 

Seungcheol might have smelled like citrus. It was almost the gravitating center of the man, surpassing the thick eyelashes that kisses his supple cheeks almost perfectly or the tousled black hair that felt nice through Jeonghan’s fingers under the moonlight and soaked in pool water, only if he hadn’t found out that Seungcheol tasted like nicotine and coffee, of regrets and one-night-stands, and _want_ so bad it burned through his core and made him squirm.

 

Seungcheol tasted like the contrast of hard discipline and slight trespasses, Jeonghan realized when he had pushed the elder to his bed that night and climbed on his lap, straddling him in a haste of absence and hunger that has gripped Jeonghan right around the throat. His lips have felt too good along his skin and his tongue sinful inside his mouth. He didn’t know what he was doing, just the fact that the scissors Seungcheol was gripping earlier fell with a clatter to the hardwood floor and that the ruined cigarettes were left unattended by the bedside table. During the break of dawn when the kids from the other rooms might have been up already, it was all _Seungcheol, Seungcheol, Seungcheol.._

 

Jeonghan pulled away and then pressed an innocent fluttering kiss on Seungcheol’s mouth, “You’ve made the worst decisions. I still think you’re perfect.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I conveyed enough of Jeonghan's innocence as a 22-year-old college student and Seungcheol's carefulness around him. Let's talk about their characters in this fic or more plots (whatever you like) in here: https://curiouscat.me/pflaume. If you want to talk personally though, my twt is available.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me in twitter and let's also talk in: https://curiouscat.me/pflaume. Love you jeongcheolies.


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